


Dean Winchester is Saved

by 1shouldbe_sleeping



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Heaven, Hell Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Season/Series 04, angel lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1shouldbe_sleeping/pseuds/1shouldbe_sleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!"</p>
<p>What happened to Castiel when he gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition? Was Castiel already losing his path before? Why was he chosen?</p>
<p>Let's find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester is Saved

**Author's Note:**

> My main reason for this is to explore Heaven, Angels, Hell, and Castiel as a character. There are romantic undertones, as I do believe Castiel began to transfer all his love for humanity to Dean from the moment he saw Dean's raw and broken soul in Hell; however, this is not entirely focused on the romance. It is a precursor for understanding Castiel and how he came to love Dean, which is significant in my soon-to-be-published fic "The Angel Feather." 
> 
> Thank you for reading. It means so very much. Feel free to leave feedback. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Carver Edlund -- sorry, Eric Kripke. Also, I know I may have altered slight details, but it isn't so altered that it is an AU. It is simply a small detail omitted or changed. Anywho. Enjoy!

Castiel, Angel of Thursday, sat amongst the flowers and vines upon a wooden chair in a soul’s heavenly paradise. Having never before possessed a vessel, he felt as though he were experiencing Heaven and all its paradises for the first time. He took an unnecessarily long inhale through his nose to take in every smell wafting through the air. The sweet honeysuckle was invigorating. A strong, foreign scent of grass and newly turned earth joined the honey smell, and his newly inhabited vessel associated the smell with _freshly cut grass_. The soul, a young mute named Hannah, was currently tending to her blossoming carnations, and she was completely unsuspecting of another presence in her precious garden, which had been haunted by Castiel on more than one occasion. He enjoyed the warm, calm atmosphere, and most of all he enjoyed the solitude.

The angel ran his vessel’s hand – _his_ hand – across the grass. It tickled the soft flesh of his palm. He felt a smile cross his lips. This particular spot in Hannah’s garden was encircled by honeysuckles and Queen Anne’s lace, which Castiel found to be visually pleasing. Seeing these flowers through a human’s eyes made the angel curious to see what else he could experience through this vessel. He had spent millennia upon millennia watching his Father’s creation walk upon the earth, watching as they experienced pain, heartbreak, happiness, love, compassion, anger. . . . He could never fully understand their desires nor their fears; this inability to understand their free will to feel, however, did not deter the angel – it made him dangerously curious. He hungered for a chance to feel as they did in every aspect.

Castiel fanned out his glossy black wings. The azure at their tips shimmered. He needed to stretch them, as they were getting sore. Or perhaps he needed to remind himself of who, and what, he was: an angel of the Lord, not a human. His true form was over a thousand feet with a wingspan of a hundred thousand, and here he was, trapped in the willing vessel of a nearly six foot devout human. He knew what he was; it was all he knew. 

He caressed the nearest cluster of Queen Anne’s lace with his fingertips. The buzzing of a nearby bee vibrated in his ears. Honeysuckle was still wafting through the air. It all sent his neurons flaring with activity. These new experiences were foreign to him; he did not understand these human things as he understood what being an angel was, and it made him fearful. He was an angel of the Lord. He was not supposed to feel a longing to humanity. His former commander and friend, the angel Anna, was once this curious; she once longed to feel as humans do. She was punished severely and she became a fallen angel. Castiel could not allow himself to suffer the same consequences she faced just to quench his curiosity. He knew better than to upset the order that was Heaven. 

Castiel folded his wings against his back and stared up at the spots of cotton ball clouds littering the sky. Wings flapped behind him without warning. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. That simple physical reaction startled him more than the foreign presence.

“Getting used to your vessel, brother?” Uriel asked.

“Unlike you,” Castiel answered without so much as a glance behind him, “this is my first possession. Watching it done and actually inhabiting a vessel are very different experiences.” He stood and faced his brother, who also doubled as his second in command. “I was merely waiting for my next instructions.”

Uriel scoffed. “So you visit a soul’s Heaven? These maggots are none too creative in what they choose as their eternal paradise.” As he spoke, he walked around the bench on which Castiel sat, gesturing towards the garden. “Surely something more entertaining than a garden destined to wilt and sprout weeds would have been more aesthetically pleasing.”

Castiel was taken aback for a short moment before he reminded himself that his siblings did not share his empathy for humans. He saw the content smile on Hannah’s face as she planted seeds into the newly turned earth and watched as they grew. He had seen the way she watered the flowers and touched the droplets left behind with a curious blaze in her eyes. That is where he learned to caress the colorful plants. Castiel’s brethren, including Uriel, did not see the joy this simple garden brought to Hannah. All they saw was a controlled chaotic representation of their abandoned Father’s creation and a soul who was trying to keep weeds alive when they would eventually die.

Castiel did not realize he had stood to face Uriel when he responded: “What I do in between missions is none of your concern.” Castiel’s fists curled in tightly, and his arms pressed against his sides. He ruffled his wings and played it off as needing to roll his shoulders. Uriel smirked, shook his head, and put his hands parallel to his shoulder in mock surrender. 

Castiel continued with, “If you don’t find visiting the heavenly paradises of human souls _aesthetically pleasing_ , then why come to me? You could have easily summoned me. I would have answered your call.”

“You would have kept me waiting.” Uriel rolled his neck. “I have witnessed you having your head in the clouds quite a few times. The reason I came to you is . . . personal. You were not supposed to be informed just yet.”

“Informed of what?” Metal creaked in the distance. When Castiel searched for the source of the noise, he found Hannah turning the rusty handle of the fountain on as she filled her watering can.

“Raphael was discussing with me possible candidates to rescue the breaker of the first seal.”

Castiel’s wings shot out in surprise, and he winced in pain. This vessel was not used to the muscles and inner workings of his wings, and his shoulders were easily strained by any wing movement. The surprise was not necessarily about the seal being broken; Castiel was very aware of the seal. He was there, in angelic form, as one of the angels leading the siege of Hell to stop Dean Winchester from breaking it. He and the other angels were too late. The broken seal was, as all angels knew it would be, the start of the long foretold apocalypse. With new broken seals soon to follow, and the inevitable war for which Castiel had been trained since he matured, the necessity of possessing a human vessel was priority. Soon, he was to walk the earth alongside Heaven’s army, following the lead of Michael and his vessel. What startled Castiel was hearing that Raphael was choosing someone to resurrect Dean Winchester.

“Should that not be an easy decision?” Castiel questioned. He rubbed absently at his shoulder. “Michael’s vessel was the one to break the seal, so Michael should therefore resurrect him and convince him to say yes.”

“Michael is currently on the hunt for our elder brother Gabriel.” Castiel’s heart skipped a beat, and his feathers puffed up. This was news to him as well. “With his profit Chuck beginning to foretell events of the apocalypse, Raphael is keeping a close watch on him while also organizing our army and our plan of attack. Michael feels having Gabriel back will help Raphael and our war efforts greatly. Already there are conspiracies of another seal being prepped for breaking.”

Castiel had always been told about the apocalypse, but now that it had finally begun, it was hard to wrap his head around. “Who is Raphael considering for the rescue?”

“Me, of course,” Uriel answered with a smirk. Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He mentioned Balthazar.”

“Were Balthazar tasked with finding a vessel, he would find the nearest winery and drown himself in alcohol and inequity. Balthazar may be clever, but he is not wise.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“It would not be the first time he has heard those words cross my lips.”

Uriel chuckled. “You have your moments, Castiel.”

“Moments of what?”

“And thus the moment is murdered.” Uriel plucked a honeysuckle from a cluster beside him and sniffed. He curled a lip and coughed. He dropped the flower and crushed it beneath his shoe. Castiel felt a boiling heat flood his veins. Uriel continued unawares: “Raphael also considered you, and he spoke rather fondly of you.”

Castiel tilted his head and squinted at his brother. “Surely you are joking. You do that.”

“There is no joking about raising Dean Winchester from perdition. Apparently Raphael sees you as tactical, strong, and trustworthy enough. When it comes to smiting, you are one of the best.” Uriel’s deep chuckle vibrated in Castiel’s chest. “He has not seen me smite, however, so do not allow your ego to be set ablaze.” 

“When is he announcing his choice?” Castiel asked too eagerly. His heart was leaping in his chest. This excitement was overwhelming. He had to appear indifferent, so he cleared his throat. “I ought to prepare whether I am chosen or not.”

“There ought not to be any preparation from any of us,” Uriel growled. Castiel blinked. He was not expecting an outburst. “We tried to stop Dean Winchester from breaking the seal in the first place, and we were too late. Righteous man.” Uriel spit. “Why we are wasting our time saving this undeserving maggot is beyond me.”

Castiel’s fingertips went numb with the build-up of angelic magic, and his wings puffed up in fury. He clenched and unclenched his fists so tightly they almost hurt. Castiel’s entire body felt hot. A red hue fell over his surroundings. _Your body is reacting to anger_ , his vessel told him. Castiel knew what anger was, and he was embracing it. What Uriel was saying was blasphemous at best, and surprisingly insulting to Castiel personally. Dean Winchester may have broken the first seal, but he was a righteous man and deserving enough to be Michael’s vessel. What Castiel heard of Dean Winchester’s soul after the failed siege of Hell – how it nearly tore itself apart from guilt – was enough for Castiel to sympathize with the human. As he always does.

He knew that sympathy would one day be his down fall.

“Do not give me that look, brother,” Uriel snapped, and he waved a dismissive hand at Castiel. The glare Castiel gave Uriel did not falter. “I _understand_ that our Father gave us orders eons ago that the righteous man to break the seal is the one we aid to end the apocalypse. I will follow orders; it does not, however, call for my approval.”

Castiel sighed. The red hue faded. He pressed his wings against his shoulders tight. It was not the reconciliation Castiel wanted to hear. Uriel, however, acknowledged the near blasphemy, and it was enough for Castiel.

“We should hear the announcement any minute now. You, Balthazar, and I will meet in Raphael’s paradise when he summons us.”

“Understood.”

“I am going to find Balthazar.” Uriel spread his russet wings wide, and he puffed out his chest. The display seemed predatory and, to Castiel, like a challenge. The deep ruffle of his feathers was hard to hide from Uriel, who only smirked in response. He did not, however, acknowledge Castiel’s reaction. 

“Knowing him,” Uriel continued, “he is probably in the paradise of some whore who slipped our radar coming into Heaven. I will see you soon, brother.”

Castiel breathed deeply, and then answered, “You shall.” 

Thus, Uriel left, and Castiel immediately reached out for the crushed honeysuckle. He held it between his fingers. As heartbreaking as it was, the potency of the smell actually increased. Castiel stood and placed it beneath the bush from which it was torn. He looked around the garden. Hannah was watering her newly planted carnations. He walked over to her and shaded her beneath the length of his wings. Though they were sore, it felt good to stretch his wings out to their full length. Perfect timing, too. An announcement resonated in his mind from Raphael himself: _Castiel, Balthazar, and Uriel, I request your presence immediately. I have important tasks to share with you. Do not keep me waiting._

Before Castiel left, he waved his hands over the carnations Hannah was watering. As he did so, the tips of the flowers turned a pale pink. The soul Hannah stared in silent awe. She smiled as she touched the tips delicately. Castiel, in turn, smiled, and then he flapped his wings and teleported to Raphael’s paradise.

Angels like Castiel, no matter how high their rank, were not fortunate enough to have their own paradise. The archangels were the only angels their Father presented with paradises. An archangel’s paradise was a place that overlooked every Heaven and their every soul, every angel in existence; it was a place from which to watch the gates of Heaven. From their paradise, they commanded and regulated the garrisons, assimilated each soul that entered, and watched the happenings of earth. Their paradise was also a place where they received orders from their Heavenly Father, and that was a rare occurrence; indeed, so few of them had actually received orders from their Father, and it had been so long since they had heard him speak. Sitting in a paradise of his own making sounded like paradise indeed to Castiel; however, endlessly waiting for a command from God and hearing only silence. . . . Castiel had grown accustomed to such a silence. He did not envy the archangels their paradise, nor did he envy their burdens.

Rapheal’s paradise was a reflection of earth’s modern American billionaire: a dark wooden door with stained glass windows depicting an archangel cast in heavenly light stared at Castiel. Beneath him was a cobblestone path with a crisp and emerald lawn on either side of him. Towering over him was an amber mansion with more stained glass windows decorated with heavenly scenes and crystal windows scattered amongst them. Castiel walked up the cobblestone stairs leading to the door and grabbed the cold brass knocker. _Self-gratuitous, indeed_ , Castiel thought bitterly. He enjoyed the solitude, but he also enjoyed the openness of a Heaven such as Hannah’s. Raphael’s paradise felt trapped, isolated, and alone.

Before Castiel could knock, the door opened. No angel waited for him. He stepped inside with slow, careful steps. The door closed with an ominous squeak behind him. Before him was a vast winding staircase with deep amber wood railings and maroon carpeting. To his left were open double doors leading to a dining hall and crystal dinnerware. To his right was a hallway lined with more maroon carpeting decorated with white roses and emerald petals. _A shame they are not real flowers_ , Castiel thought as he walked down the hall. At the end of the hallway the double doors opened on their own. A tall chair waited behind them, but as its back was facing Castiel, he could not see who it was. He still knew it was Raphael. 

The archangel said, “Come in, Castiel, and make yourself comfortable,” in a rumbling bass of a voice.

Castiel walked into the gray-walled room filled with paintings depicting Raphael the Archangel battling demons, smiting the wicked, and other such heavenly acts. A fire crackled in the brick fireplace with two archangel blades hung above it in an X. Balthazar, adorned in his new vessel, leaned against the fireplace with his feet crossed in front of him and a glass of red wine in his hands. Uriel stood casually with his hands in his pockets by the window. His eyebrows furrowed and he scoffed.

“Mud-monkeys,” Castiel heard Uriel mutter. Castiel’s heart punched his ribcage and his face felt hot.

“Ah, Cassy,” Balthazar crooned. “You look charming in your new vessel. I congratulate you.” He lifted his wine glass with a smile on his face. “The vessel suits you well.”

After glancing over Balthazar and his entirety, Castiel responded with: “As does yours.” Balthazar’s vessel for this new age was a man with an angular jaw, coiffed blonde hair, and an accent that made him sound as clever and smarmy as he really was. His vessel was also long and lean, which suited his fighting style well: he used speed and quick, deadly movements on the battlefield, as well as ambush. He was flexible and nimble, and Castiel admired his fighting style. He did not, however, admire his taste for drunkenness nor his frequent visits to dens of inequity. Balthazar was one of the only angels Castiel knew exercised some sort of free will. He would never admit it, but Castiel envied Balthazar his easy descent into free will – though Castiel found it odd the way Balthazar used it.

“Now that we are all here,” Raphael announced, “we ought to start.” Castiel finally faced Raphael and all his glory and radiating authority. The archangel was also adorning his vessel. He chose well, for his vessel’s eyes perfectly mirrored Raphael’s gaze that had the ability to make anyone meeting it feel like the vermin they really were. Castiel hated the way he quickly submitted in the presence of archangels. Gabriel never produced this aura; he always made other angels feel welcomed. Gabriel, however, was gone.

“One of you will be charged with extracting Michael’s Sword from the depths of Hell, as was commanded by our Father long ago, and will then be in charge of testing his will and strength,” Raphael said. He sat in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. His gaze fell over all of them, and it was unwavering. “Another will be the second in command and will report to me on the progress of the seals. The last will be in charge of weapon training and sending troops to the appropriate seal to guard.”

“As you see fit,” Uriel agreed. He picked up his glass of wine and squared his shoulders. He sniffed the wine with a cocky grin. Castiel had the feeling he was waiting for a celebratory drink.

“Balthazar,” Raphael called. Balthazar’s wings, brown that evolved to a soft cream, twitched, and he nearly choked on the wine he was guzzling down. “You will oversee weapon training and decide which troops will go where, as you are tactile and observant. You may not waste your time whoring yourself, am I clear? We are facing the end times. I need you to be at your quickest and I need your mind sharp. Do not disappoint me. You can be easily replaced.”

“But you won’t replace me because there is no one better,” Balthazar sighed. “If there were, you would have chosen them.” He lifted his now empty glass at Raphael. Castiel was surprised at his brother’s boldness – on the contrary, Castiel was not. He smiled – internally, that was. Raphael did not need to see that Castiel found his brother amusing at such a time. 

“You are bold,” Raphael stated. He took a long pause, and he swirled his wine in his glass. Then he nodded. “Which is why I need you for that specific task.” With a wave of his hand, Balthazar’s glass filled with wine once more.

“Thank you,” Balthazar said with smile. He took a deep gulp.

“Uriel,” Raphael said. Uriel gave a smarmy smile in response, shoving one hand in his pocket and lifting his wine glass. “I am trusting you with reporting to me the happenings of the garrisons and the progress of Michael’s Sword and his preparation. You will be ready to receive commands from me as well as Balthazar and Castiel at a moment’s notice.”

Uriel was about to sip to his new position but choked when he heard the news. “What?” he spat, and his russet feathers rustled.

Raphael glared at Uriel, but the other angel did not shrink beneath his superior’s glare. The lights flickered. Raphael stood, and his three great pale yellow wings spread wide in a display of archangel dominance. Castiel was afraid he would witness an archangel smiting. His flight-or-fight response kicked into overdrive, and his wings stretched wide instinctually, readying to flee. His fingers numbed with the build of his angelic magic, and it was given away by the dull white glow that was casted in his eyes. Castiel pressed his puffed wings against his back in fear of their response to Raphael’s challenge. There was a chance it could have looked a challenge for dominance rather than preparing to escape. 

Uriel, on the other hand, spread his puffed wings wide, and he crushed the wine glass in his claw-like grasp. It was a daring and dominating response, and therefore it was not smart.

“As I told Balthazar: you can easily be replaced,” Raphael boomed. One of the lights in the room burst in a sparkling display. “Do not argue me on this, my young brother. Where I place you, you _will_ go.”

“Beneath Castiel, the daydreamer?” Uriel snapped, pointing a finger at the angel in question. Castiel felt white hot power course through him, and his fingers curled into a tight fist. “I thought this was to be my promotion to a seraph, _not_ Castiel’s! I have been his second for far too many a millennia. I have proven myself able to lead a garrison, all the garrisons.”

“You have proven to me that you are selfish and ruthless. I am putting you in this position to test your loyalty.” The lights stopped flickering. Raphael folded his frighteningly beautiful wings against his back. There was no way it could have been mistaken as a surrender; rather, it was to show that this conversation was over. He straightened his jacket and sat down once more. All the while he glared at Uriel, who stood silently fuming. Uriel did not, however, argue further, and for that Castiel thought his brother had made a wise decision. 

“You may have guessed your position, Castiel,” Raphael said at last. He ceased his glowering when he looked at Castiel, and his face fell flat again. Emotionless, as all angels ought to be. “Understand this: I am putting you in command of not only your garrison, but almost all the garrisons. You will be consulting with Balthazar on where to send the troops, and you will tell him where they are needed. You have done well in the past as a soldier. Now prove to me you can lead as a seraph.”

“I shall do my best,” Castiel said stiffly. An immense pressure fell upon his shoulders. His wings drooped. Seraphs do not droop their wings, however; seraphs are powerful, valiant, and do not show weakness. That immense pressure upon his shoulders would be used to strengthen him, not oppress him. He was a seraph now – Castiel knew, especially in front of Raphael, he should act it.

“Once you enter Hell, demons will be drawn to you as a moth is drawn to a flame. You do well when surrounded, so only destroy the demons that are in your way, not the ones yet to come. I am sending Uriel, Hester, Inias, Ion, Ephraim, Thaddeus, Jedidiah, and the young Samandriel to scout out ahead of you, but you will be on your own. We need you in and out of Hell as quickly as possible and as unharmed as possible. I am confident you will do well in extracting Dean Winchester from Hell.”

“You said I would have to test his will and strength?” Castiel began. “Elaborate, if you will, please.”

“I will enlighten you on such happenings when the time comes. In short: you will send him to seals that you believe he can protect, and you will judge his tactical battle planning and his character; you will assess Dean’s reaction, his decisions, and his morals.”

Castiel could not help but ask, “Why?”

“To see how well he will act in accordance with Michael when the time comes.” Before Castiel could inquire further, Raphael waved a dismissive hand. “Report to Hester for briefing.” The double doors opened. “Leave me, all of you. I will summon you, Uriel, once Michael’s Sword is raised from perdition.”

“I shall humbly await your call,” Uriel sneered. Raphael only glowered. Castiel immediately teleported out of Raphael’s paradise and into Gabriel’s old paradise. It now served as weapon manufacturing and training, where Balthazar would now spend a majority of his days. Though Gabriel’s house in his paradise was torn down and replaced with a more efficient building, the air still smelled sweet.

When Castiel entered through the all-glass doors, Hester waited for him behind a chrome desk adorned with angel blades and a map made from the hide of a cattle. It was an ancient map of Hell made when Lucifer had barely entered the cage. Not much has changed of Hell as of late. 

Hester took no time preparing him. “It seems as though Alistair moved Dean Winchester after he broke the first seal, so he will not be in the same place as he was before,” she began. She at a spot in the middle of the map. Castiel hovered. “We have concluded that he is being held in this part of Hell with Alistair.”  
Hester pointed to the main Gates of Hell and dragged her finger along a trail. “Because Dean is at the center of Hell, he is easy to find. He is also located in the area with most traffic. Demons of all sorts pass through here, including those guarding Alistair and Dean, so it is easy to assume Dean will be more heavily guarded than the last time we looked for him. It is unlikely you will go in unnoticed.”

“I am an Angel of the Lord entering the pits of Hell,” Castiel pointed out. “Of course I will not go unnoticed.”

Hester smiled, but it turned sad in an instant. She silently handed him the angel blade. He tried tucking it into his trench coat pockets, but his coat swung around too much. The blade would slip out too easily during any vigorous movement. He put it in his pant pocket. The blade was too long and was not easy nor was the motion of pulling it out smooth. When he pulled it out again, he stared at his sleeves. They were long and could easily conceal a weapon, and he could still hold onto the blade and draw it out when it was needed. He could smite with one hand and strike his foes with the other. Suddenly Castiel grew fond of his new attire.

“You best be on your way,” Hester said. Castiel spread his wings and readied himself to teleport out of Gabriel’s paradise. The light reflected off his black-azure wings’ oily surface. He curled them back in when Hester softly asked, “Castiel?” She played with her own fingers, and she bit her lip. Her vessel’s eyes reflected who she was perfectly: beautiful and full of worry. 

She finally spoke: “Remember – remember that those souls down there deserve their penance. Their sentence to Hell was brought on by their own doing.”

“I know what Hell was created for, Hester,” Castiel reassured her. He squinted. He knew he was missing something.

“What I mean to say is that you . . . .” She sighed, and she looked down at her feet. Castiel tilted his head. “Do not get sidetracked.” Her voice was now stern and her shoulders squared as she looked at him. “You are on a mission.”

Castiel was taken aback. “And my mission is this: I’m saving a soul who was put in Hell because he saved his brother.”

“By making a deal with a demon,” Hester argued. “He is neither righteous nor is he faithful to the Lord our God. You are plucking him from Hell because he is Michael’s Sword, nothing more. Were he not Michael’s Sword, he would find his way to Hell sooner than later.” Hester took a deep breathe. Castiel could feel his fingertips going numb and his heart punching his ribcage. His feathers puffed up and stood on end. A red hue fell upon his surroundings. His vessel reminded him once again: _Anger_. 

“Castiel, there is not a doubt in my mind that you will be successful in extracting Dean Winchester from Hell. You are a good soldier, and you have been a valiant leader to our garrison.” Castiel’s wings drooped, and his fists unclenched. His fingertips no longer felt numb. “However,” Hester continued, “you allow emotions to grab hold of your true nature and crush it. You are an Angel of the Lord – you said so yourself. Remember that. We all have a mission to fulfill . . . and a war to win.”

“Understood,” Castiel barked, and he spread his wings. “I will see you after the mission is finished.”

“Be safe –” she called, but Castiel did not stay to hear her further. He needed to be alone to let his anger seep out without suffering any collateral damage.

Castiel went to the Gates of Heaven. The souls were never aware that Heaven even had gates, nor did they know that there was a way for souls to cross over to other souls’ paradises. Angels were essentially the only beings to constantly cross over from one paradise to the next. The Gates of Heaven were only accessible by angels, and the souls, even if they could hop from one paradise to another, could pass the gates unawares. Even if they could see the gates, why would they want to cross them? They had literal paradise. _Heaven is paradise_ , Castiel thought to himself. Why would angels want to leave?

The angel felt a pang of guilt. Once he left Heaven to adorn his vessel and tasted Earth’s atmosphere, he knew he would never quench his thirst for humanity again. He wanted every excuse to be upon Earth and amongst his Father’s creation. Dean Winchester was not only a mission, he was the ultimate excuse. Raphael did Castiel a great service, but he also sentenced him to the betrayal of his own angelic nature. Perhaps Hester was right. Castiel needed to stay focused, lest he began to mirror Anna and her unbearable longing for humanity.

Castiel walked up to the Gates. They were a pearl white, glittering in the holy light casted by the angels, archangels, and souls. The Gates sensed a celestial presence and opened, and as they did, the pure voices of the first angels created, the archangels, sang to Castiel. The singing made him sad, and he closed his eyes a moment to soak up the singing. None of the archangels sang anymore, not since their Father stopped answering them directly. Did He know they had stopped singing?

Castiel passed through the Gates of Heaven and did not look back when they closed. The singing ceased, and the universe seemed a shade darker. Castiel closed his eyes and tucked his wings tight against his back. Then he fell.

Going to Earth never felt like falling in the sense of betrayal that Lucifer and Anna fell, but more in the sense that he allowed himself to fly free. It was an easy descent from Heaven. It also felt like a breath of fresh air to the angel, though he would never admit it to the others. Going to Hell, however, felt like falling. He had heard stories of what it was like for an angel to fall, and he had witnessed it firsthand when his sister Anna fell. Her wings burned to a crisp and her grace burst out of her in a fiery explosion. She wailed all the way down. Castiel, as he made his way to Hell, felt as though he, too, would burn. He began to sweat all over, and his exposed skin began to smolder. His wings began to sting with the exposure to the heat. He was a comet falling towards the earth beneath him.

When he sensed that he was close to Hell’s Gates, he spread his wings. They caught the drift and slowed his descent. Castiel had quickly gotten used to the heat; however, the way it clung to his body and drenched him in sweat was still close to unbearable. He kept his eyes closed the whole time he fell, and as he landed, he opened them again. It was dark, smelled of rotting corpses, and looked like a dungeon from the dark ages. The Gates of Hell were black and rusted with spikes at the top. Heads of some of Hell’s first souls were mounted on them with mouths ajar in silent screams, and eyes plucked out for carrion. It was hard for Castiel to look. He had to remember what Hester said: “Souls down there deserve their penance.”

Castiel lifted a hand towards the Gates of Hell, and he uttered, _“Oh-doh,”_ “Open,” in Enochian. The Gates groaned as they opened. Castiel could feel the Gates’ reluctance to do so, but they could not ignore a direct command from a celestial being. He also sensed the Gates’ repulsion of having to let others like him enter, which tipped him off to the presence of his angelic siblings. They scouted ahead as Raphael promised they would.

As he passed through the Gates, it was though he entered a completely new realm. Hell’s Gates evaporated. He was now surrounded by cells, both modern and medieval, with dirty hands stretching out towards him. They wailed and cursed and gnarled like beasts. Castiel heard whipping somewhere off in the distance, as well as a guillotine slamming down upon a head, the bloody gush of limbs being torn apart. Screams that seemed like they would never end were cut off in an instant with death, only to be brought back and tortured once more. Castiel did not want to, but he stepped forward.

He passed the first cells without looking inside. As he passed, the souls seemed to scream louder. He could hear their vocal chords tearing themselves apart. He walked slowly and cautiously. Some souls began to shout about angels come to rescue them, and he started to hear echoes of it as other souls caught on. When he looked to his left and right, more halls materialized, leading to endless amounts of dungeons and torture rooms and guillotines. Not only was his holy light casting a pure light upon the tainted ground, the souls were beginning to call for him. “Angel, save us!” “I have been here for so long!” “Forgive us, angel! Save us!” The demons would respond even quicker to his presence were they not held up by his siblings.

He could see a door at the end of the hall. It was wooden with a barred window. Above it in a shiny modern plaque, carved in Enochian, was _Alistair’s Apprentice_. Beneath it was _Dean Winchester_. In breaking the seal, Dean Winchester had broken down and agreed to torture souls rather than being tortured himself. He had truly become Alistair’s apprentice. Castiel knew he had found the right place.

As he neared the door, a wave of demons suddenly thrust themselves upon him. They gnarled and spat at him. Their faces were hideous, twisted, and gnarled in hatred. Yet they did not attack. Castiel spread his wings wide in challenge, and he allowed his divine power to grow so strong that it burst out of him in holy light. The demons began to howl. _Thus is the power of a seraph_ , Castiel thought as the celestial power burned him from the inside. He slipped his angel blade from his sleeve and cut down the first demon that charged at him. How foolish it was.

More demons tried to surround him rather than take him on by themselves, but as Raphael said, Castiel did well when surrounded. He thrust his wings out and struck two demons that were trying to get at him from behind. He smacked his palm into another demon’s face and burnt it with heavenly fire. As the demon burned, Castiel used the body to push two other demons out of the way as they charged, and used the body as cover when a third came from his right. He smote it with ease. He dug the angel blade deep into the torso of one of the demons he knocked over with his wing, and he threw the body at the other as it tried to get up. The demons he pushed with the body the first time began to stand, but he teleported over and stabbed one through the eye and smote the other one to his left. Only one remained. It stood and tried to stumble away. Castiel teleported in front of it to block its path, and it gasped. Castiel spread his wings wide. The feathers puffed with anger. He then drove the blade underneath its chin and watched as the demon died. The burned-out husk of a body fell beneath the angel’s feet.

Castiel looked around at the six bodies he left in his wake. The tortured souls had mixed feelings, from what he could hear: some cheered and praised him, for he was their “savior come at last.” Others wailed and accused him of being an Angel of Darkness rather than of Heaven, and begged him not to torture them. Some simply begged him to end their suffering by smiting them as he smote the demons. Castiel ignored them and reached for the door, and as he did, he heard other demons coming. They banged on the bars of the souls’ cells as they passed, spewing out profanities at both the souls and Castiel. 

As the angel smote with one hand and stabbed with another, a demon overtook him and bent one of his wings at an odd angle. It was enough to make Castiel groan in pain, and he tried to reach around to smite it. Just then, another demon grabbed his jaw and gripped so tight Castiel felt his jaw bone crackle beneath the demon’s claws. He smelled the raunchy stink of blood, gore, and hellfire. A third demon grabbed hold of Castiel’s hand, the one holding the blade, and thrust his arm back, pinned behind him and underneath his free wing. It plucked the blade from the angel’s hand, and Castiel started to panic, but he burrowed it deep. He brought his smiting hand up and drove it through the blackened heart of the demon holding his jaw. With a burst of angelic power, he smote the demon. The light of the smiting blinded the other two demons, and while the one pinning his arm let go, the demon holding his wing did not let up. Castiel extended his captured wing out, lifting the demon off the ground, and, ignoring the pain, slammed the demon against the nearest cell. A metallic clang made the nearby imprisoned souls shriek, as well as the demon being pinned against the cell bars. He heard movement from behind and moved out of the way before the demon could stab him, but it still managed to leave a gash on his stomach. He buried the pain and managed to smite the demon before it drove the blade home. He grabbed the blade before it fell from the dead demon’s hand and plunged it through the other demon’s skull as it tried to get up. 

Castiel was panting and bleeding. He heard the footsteps of other approaching demons. He hurried through the door and locked it behind him before they came. He took a moment to allow himself to heal his wound as much as he could. His eyes shut tightly as the burning sting of his wound became more prominent. Once he concentrated on his healing, it began to fade, although it burned. He could not complain, however, as he was healing much quicker than he usually did. Being a new seraph, he was still getting used to the extra power bestowed upon him. He opened his eyes when the pain had dulled from unbearable to tolerable.

Luckily, Alistair was not in here training his new star pupil. Instead, a body lie crumpled into the fetal position before him, cast in a single beam of light. His chest rose and fell in even beats. His face was covered by his arms, but Castiel could see a nose peeking out from underneath, as well as pouty chapped lips. Castiel sauntered forward with careful steps to examine closer. A scar ran across the soul’s temple. His knuckles were gnarled, raw, and his wrists were wrapped with soiled cloth. His clothes were tattered and torn in random places with splotches of crimson blood scattered across his torso, arms, and back. Whether that was his blood or the blood of those he tortured, Castiel did not want to know.

Castiel had to stop referring to the soul as merely “the soul,” and “him.” He had to refer to the soul as Dean Winchester. The angel thought that perhaps if he did not put a name to the soul, he would ache for Dean less, but he was failing. When he moved Dean Winchester’s arm from his face, he saw streaks that cut through the grime and blood on his face leading from his eyes down his chin. Crying. Dean Winchester had been crying. This sparked a hope in Castiel that made his whole body warm. No demons cried when they tortured their victims, nor did they mourn their victim’s deaths – does that mean that Dean was mourning the countless deaths and torturing of the souls on the rack? Was he thus undeserving of a further sentence in Hell and therefore worth saving? Was Castiel right in putting his hopes in such a frail human?

More often than not, placing a hand upon a soul not only left a mark upon the soul, it also sent a jolt of energy and purity through an angel, for souls are in essence made of pure energy. In addition, touching a soul, an angel can experience that soul’s memories, feelings, thoughts, and consciousness. Castiel has observed countless souls in Heaven and has acted as a guardian for the humans on earth, but he has never _touched_ a soul. Always observing, never touching. Hester knew this, hence her warning; Raphael _should_ have known this. Perhaps Uriel was protesting Raphael’s decision for the same reasons Hester was warning him, Castiel, of what he was feeling. He _was_ the daydreamer, but he was still an angel, which in itself was contradictory. He should not be the daydreamer, the curious Angel of Thursday, the angel secretively craving to understand humanity. Dean Winchester, in this context, was his gateway to understanding humanity.

The Angel of Thursday ought to have steeled himself against the onslaught of raw, human emotions so as to avoid absorption; however, contrary to his contempt, he could not resist. Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder and gripped him tight. Castiel’s hand-print branded itself upon the soul’s shoulder. Dean’s eyes shot open wide to reveal green eyes dilated with fear. The first words uttered by him were garbled in an agonizing scream. Castiel grunted against the burning against his hand, and he lifted Dean up off the ground.

Castiel did not expect to black out. Immediately, a surge of emotions, energy, and memories that were not his own plagued his mind. Remorse was at the forefront, and it was for so few but deep things: torturing soul after soul put on the rack by Alistair; finding even the slightest bit of pleasure in torturing; and, lastly, remorse for leaving Sammy, his brother, alone on earth in such a bloody mess. In this, Dean felt anger as well: anger that he and his brother could not annul the deal; anger that he had to torture the souls to save himself the same torture; anger towards Alistair. 

Castiel felt a pull on his gut. At the thought of Sam, a slew of memories ran through the angel’s mind: Sam taking his first steps; Dean giving Sam the last bit of cereal when Dean wanted it so badly; beating up others that harmed his little brother; holding Sam in his arms as he died; looking at a broken and crying Sam before he, Dean, died. Castiel knew Dean made the deal with the crossroads demon to resurrect Sam; however, the angel never truly understood the depth of love that drove Dean to sacrifice himself. Love was what God commanded the angels do; God commanded the angels to love the humans more than their own Father in Heaven. This love that Castiel felt through Dean was a completely new experience, and it was overwhelming; in fact, all of these feelings – love, remorse, anger – were overpowering. Castiel was left in awe and wonder – how did they work? What else caused them? How could he feel these as Dean does?

He had to stop. This was bordering on blasphemous. Hester was right in her warning: do not let human emotions cloud him from seeing the mission. There is a war to win. Dean is a pawn. But Dean was so electrifyingly human – and he was _righteous_ , for only a righteous man could have broken the seal in shedding blood. Hester may have been right in her warning, but she was wrong about Dean Winchester. 

Castiel gripped Dean tighter and flung himself from the room. Two demons were charging at him. He put Dean behind him and spread out his wings to protect the fragile soul. Castiel stabbed the first demon through the gut and flung it into the second with telekinetic force. He stabbed it while it was down. When he turned to face Dean, he found him crouching and shivering in fear. Castiel placed a careful hand on the soul’s shoulder, but the pure energy began to sting and Castiel gripped tightly. The angel used that energy to propel him forward and out of Hell. 

The ascent to earth was a short, painful journey. When Castiel opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, with the night sky twinkling above him. The trees surrounding him were strewn about and smoldering with the impact of an angel coming to earth. He stood and let Dean’s soul return to his earthly body. He would resurrect in time, once his soul had a chance to heal itself. Upon watching the soul reconnect with the body, Castiel’s chest tightened, and his stomach churned. His hands were tense and his arms ached. He stared at his vessel’s limbs in question – _his_ limbs – with a furrowed brow. He tried to figure out what it was that his body was feeling but failed to put a name to it. His vessel responded with, _You’d rather not know_ , and Castiel nodded to himself, though he was curious to know. It was a strong sensation that he wished he could put a name to.

As he ascended into Heaven, he pondered. He dug deep into his own memories. When he reached the pearly Gates of Heaven, with their iridescent glow nearly blinding him, he started to decipher the feeling: when he returned to visit Heaven during his time stationed on earth, he felt that twinge. It was not necessarily mourning, for mourning to Castiel meant feeling the death of a loved one – for example, his fallen siblings. What he felt then was him missing earth and his time spent watching over the humans, and when he passed through the Gates of Heaven every so often during those 2,000 years, he _longed_ to be on earth and surrounded by humanity once more. He was already missing Dean’s humanity, and he longed to understand all those human sentiments. 

Castiel went through the Gates feeling guilty – at least, he ought to have been guilty. He felt not a hint of guilt, only aching longing. He also felt proud. Plucking a soul from the depths of Hell was an act of which to be proud; saving Dean Winchester from perdition was something of which he felt personally proud. 

When the Gates of Heaven closed behind him, he sent out a message to not only Raphael, but to Uriel, Balthazar, Hester, and every angel who could hear him: _Dean Winchester is saved._


End file.
